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Chapter One

Spencer Dean stopped his Harley-Davidson WLA motorcycle in front of the driveway that led up the hill to Austin's dilapidated Drysdale Mansion. He'd inherited the classic World War II era bike from Richie, although maybe inherited wasn't the right word. Richie wasn't dead, after all. Just gone.

He'd been gone for almost fifteen years now, and Spence had long ago come to terms with the fact that his brother wasn't coming back. Nobody Spence loved ever came back. And God knew they all fucked up.

With a rough growl of irritation at his own maudlin thoughts, he killed the engine and dismounted, then walked the short distance up the cobbled drive to the gate. It was locked, of course, the real estate agent's lockbox dangling from the wrought iron.

Spencer hesitated, his head tilted back so he could take in the full majesty of the place. Or, rather, so that he could visualize the majesty that he could bring back to the stunning 1876 home. For generations, it had been the residence of the Drysdale family, movers and shakers in early Texas and Austin politics. Located at the end of an exclusive street a few miles from Austin's Capitol building, the four-thousand square foot home represented a stunning example of Second Empire architecture.

Henry Drysdale had overseen the construction personally, determined to build the perfect home for his young wife. As far as Spencer was concerned, he'd succeeded brilliantly, and the Drysdale family had occupied the home until the nineteen seventies when the last member of the family sold the property to a small hotel company for the purpose of a high-end B&B. The company had gone bankrupt, and the house had fallen into disrepair. Since then, it had changed hands dozens of times, but no owner had ever put in the time or the money to bring the place back to its original greatness.

Now the house was a sad mishmash of repairs and damage, failed renovations and odd choices. Spencer wanted to change all that. Hell, he'd wanted to breathe life back into this place ever since he and Richie had broken in when Spence was only a teen. They'd spent hours—no, days—exploring the rundown place. And while they were inside those walls, everything else fell away. It was just Spence and Richie, without the Crimson Eights pushing against them, urging Richie to slide deeper into the gang world that their father had tried so hard to shield them from.

Spencer had been fifteen when Richie had been arrested, and even after Richie was gone, Spence had come here, stealing in like a thief in the night. It had been his private place. A sanctuary. And until Brooke, he'd never brought another soul with him.

They'd made love for the first time in that house. Candles burning behind boarded-up windows. Picnic blankets thick on the floor. He'd been lost in love with her. Her intelligence and ambition humbled him. Her body excited him. Those soft curves and the way she gave herself to him with such trusting abandon.

He'd cleared the various nests and debris out of the fireplace, and they'd made a fire one winter night, risking discovery for the sake of romance. Her golden hair had gleamed in the firelight, and when she'd slowly pulled off her dress and stood before him naked and beckoning, he'd known that no man on earth had ever been luckier.

He’d never understood why she loved a guy like him. As far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn miracle. But she did, and that night he'd sworn that somehow, someway, he'd remake this house, then present Brooke with a bright, shiny jewel of a home. A mansion that was equal to her beauty. Just like Henry Drysdale had done for the woman he loved.

That dream, of course, had died five years ago.

So what the hell was he doing here now?

Wasn't that the question of the hour? He was here because this house was his great white whale. It was what he wanted, what he craved. To own it. To breathe life back into it. And, by doing so, to prove that he deserved to master it.

He'd stood in this very spot six months ago. One week after he'd moved back to Austin. And he'd decided at that moment that somehow, someway, he'd make it happen. And the fact that his finances were a goddamn mess wasn't going to stop him.